The Affairs of a Calendar
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: [Chris/Jalil SLASH and C/E] After Etain's marriage, Christopher finds unexpected solace in the night. If you refuse to think above falling in love, does it still happen? Only time will tell.


_The Affairs of a Calendar_

By Kay 

Disclaimer: I don't own Everworld. If I did, there would be a huge amount of shagging involved. ^_^ 

Author's Notes: [C/J SLASH and C/E het] This is just a little ramble that popped into my head a night ago, and I decided to write it for the hell of it. It's babbling, stupid, sappy, and utterly OOC. *grins* Enjoy, hm? Okay, I admit... lots of intimacy, also. SEX TALK! The closest I ever get to writing lemons, gyah... 

Don't read if you don't like HOMOSEXUALITY. *winks rakishly* This is dedicated to Mi-chan, who's writing me aaaaaawesome C/J smut, and has been a terrific friend-- not to mention opening the first ever EVERWORLD SLASH ARCHIVE! Joooy! 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

    _Afterwards, he always thinks it was a mistake._

    It was always about the heat of the moment with them. Since before their time thrown back into this strange, old world of legend and myth, it had _always_ been about impatient tempers and spontaneous arguing. One minute they were getting along reasonably well; the next, someone was cupping blood from a split lip, glaring angrily and refusing to speak to the other for the rest of the day. April used to find it exasperating, but she'd long since given up on affecting them with her voice of logic. 

    They never thought, it was all about action. Action to get to the other one first, to create the desired effect without wondering exactly why they wanted to in the first place. When he wanted Jalil angry, he never paused to accept a reason for it. It was just that way. Use the hateful, spiteful words and make the young scientist bristle in annoyance. Make him irritated. 

    Make him human, bring him down to a level he could understand. 

    Because Christopher _couldn't_ understand him. He couldn't fathom this strict, angular youth that was his age in physical form, but centuries ahead of him in the mind. Jalil thought in sequences, played with theory and emotion on a fine and delicate line that Christopher tripped over when he attempted to tread. Try as hard as he could, the blonde was never able to see it from this point of view. Through Jalil's dark mahogany eyes. 

    That made him angry. Because he wanted to understand Jalil-- he wanted to know how anyone could live with such an unreadable face and expressionless soul. How he could hide everything. So inhuman. 

    That was why he never thought about it, but continued to provoke when necessary. Whenever he needed a reminder that Jalil was just as human as he was, all Christopher had to do was open his mouth. A few words; they were like applying salt to open wounds that only Christopher knew how to find, and the result was electrifying every single time. 

    It was the one time the dark-eyed Jalil Sherman dropped his shields and showed fierce passion. In the heat of a moment. 

    And really, they had both decided, that was what caused the problem in the first place. Because there was no telling what could happen in the heat of a moment. 

    No telling what boundaries would be crossed. 

    _Sometimes he thinks it was a mistake, but he always comes back for it again._

    Christopher liked to tell himself that it was just a "heat of the moment" thing. Which would work as an excuse, no matter how flimsy, if it weren't for the ever-pressing thoughts drifting through his confused head. No matter what way he looked at it, Christopher couldn't really say why it was a "heat of the moment" thing only with Jalil, or why he bothered to try and reason his way through it. 

    He thought it may all boil down to something about addiction. 

    Yes; that had to be it. There was something addicting about the way Jalil Sherman felt against him, like he could snap into place as easily as a puzzle piece if one found the correct movement. Sometimes he loved just finding new ways to snag onto him, entirely new places to clench his hands against that heated skin. Touching Jalil was like touching a furnace; he never ran out of blazing, searing warmth. It was embedded into his very flesh, an enticing contradiction to his icy and coolly aloof behavior, and proof he was as alive as Christopher was, every moment. 

    Jalil wasn't like Etain, who was all soft and curved, pale and beautiful like the morning's first dew shinings. She was shaped like moon crescents and rounded petals, with calves that curved gently into delicate ankles, and a heart-shaped face that accommodated her smile like a wisp of the sun's edge. Holding Etain was like embracing something that always melted correctly to fit his mold, no matter how odd it seemed at the time. She changed _for_ him. 

    Jalil never changed. 

    No, that wasn't right, his dark eyes changed, they flashed and brightened, and sometimes they were shadowed and angry-- and sometimes they were blind to the world, blackened ash orbs wide and unseeing to a ceiling above him, not even able to look at Christopher when the blonde was running his hands down over sharp hips and rib bones. 

    But he didn't change his body, which was an awkward masterpiece if Christopher felt generous enough to think about it, and that was enough to admit he liked it that way. Jalil wasn't like Etain; he was a multitude of angles and corners, contradictory graceful arches to his neck and fingers, but absurdly thin wrists and a bony collarbone. He was a map of mocha skin and wiry, lithe muscles-- all of Etain's slenderness, but with an underlying strength. It reminded Christopher of stained glass windows and book pages, always straight and narrow and perfectly, oddly arranged. 

    Embracing Jalil was like trying to fit something that he _knew_ would work out if he tried enough. Except that, even nights later, he still hadn't found it. A junkie unable to find that perfect high. 

    But Christopher, though never thinking in the heat of the moment, and a champion of denial's cause for existence, had to admit a few loves in his private mind. Ones that couldn't be contributed to pure addiction. Yes, he liked Jalil Sherman's body. He liked how the young scientist could twist his lips only _just so_, yet still convey a wealth of emotion. The way those slender, dark fingers curved over doorknobs and his own face, worn smooth from years of turning textbook pages. How he was skinny, too skinny-- the dwarf clothing provided to them was too big anyways, and he had to tie a rope around his waist to keep the trousers up-- and his waist was perfect for Christopher to tug an arm around and pull him down demandingly. 

    He knew it wasn't right to like it, but he did in the heat of the moment. 

    Because he hated him, of course, but then… 

    _He likes to think they didn't know what they were doing at all._

    They should never have let their emotions get away from them. Or maybe that was wrong to say, because Christopher refused to believe emotion instructed him to follow through with that plan on that night. He doesn't like to think that something inside of him doesn't mind at all. 

    Although it became harder to believe the fifth night in a row. 

    But they never really meant for it to happen-- none of it was preplanned or organized. It was like their insane arguments from before, when one would abruptly say something stupidly insensitive, or for no reason, would start throwing punches. They had always been about no thought, all action. Always about the heat of the moment. The tense point of the world. 

    And once they started, it was very… very difficult to stop. 

    Sometimes Christopher wondered if Jalil ever gave any thought to what they did, but it was hard to consider. The dark-eyed scientist was always thinking. He thought about their places in Everworld, the way the universe worked, the key to creation. He thought about mines and dwarf operations, and on occasion, he thought about how stupid some people were. 

    Christopher knew all that. But he didn't know if Jalil thought about things like he did, about the complexity of their little arrangements. If he thought about things like soft, muted gasps and breathless whispers that never really left their lips. Like bunching sheets in clenched fists, triumphant exhaling of hot air when one of them gained the upper hand, and how by now, they knew everything about each other's bodies, and could write an atlas on the subject if required. Rabbit-shaped birthmark on upper left calf, faded tracing of a scar just under the shoulder blade. 

    The places to touch if they wanted the other to have watery knees. 

    Sometimes, Christopher wants to ask him if he tries not to think about it. But that would mean getting an answer, and he's not sure he wants an answer. If Jalil really thought about it, but was still not avoiding him, what kind of answer would leave them both on the understanding that it couldn't possibly be happening? Too hard to ignore if he asked questions; that made it real. It couldn't be real to them. 

    Not to Christopher, at least. 

    To admit it was real in broad daylight would mean he had to look at Jalil with something besides the safe, distant intensity that he now used. It meant having to bring it up close and examine it-- to take an actual look at his emotions. It was easier to blame it on spontaneous anger and passion, like a blinding mistake that shouldn't have happened, even so many times, so many ways they could have avoided it. 

    If it was real, then Christopher had to admit that he dreamt about those gently firm fingertips pressing against his own, and looping his arm around the waist that was perfect for him, and wanting Jalil Sherman to kiss him. 

    No, he couldn't admit to that, though. 

    Not at all. 

    _He tries to justify, and when night comes, the justifications fall away like veils of shadow to the morning._

    He told himself that it was because of Etain. 

    Beautiful, wonderful, amazing Etain-- she'd been close to his heart like a precious bauble or gift, wrapped in soft smiles and promises of ever-lasting love. Christopher would freely admit that it was her attractive looks that lulled him at first; he took one glance and found her gentle blue eyes and fiery hair an immediate pleasure. It had taken time, however, and the growing cry for affection in his body to tell him that it wasn't about sex. Etain was… important. 

    He really did love her. 

    Losing her to that dwarf midget king-- no matter how much he found himself warming to the man later on, it was still an insult-- had been a harsh blow. Dealt by the hands he loved, no less. Despite all of Etain's smiles and emotions and silent promises of devotion, she had taken the first step to drive a stake deep between them. 

    She had told him, "I have no choice. Please understand, Christopher…" 

    It had been heartbreaking; there was nothing like tears in those cloudy cerulean eyes to make Christopher feel miserable. But more than that, he was angry, too. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but it was the truth-- he was upset and furious with her, with the way she so readily gave herself away from him. Hadn't she known his love for her? His willingness to go to all lengths? He'd fought for her, fuck it all, he'd pledged himself to her despite all he could have had, and… and… 

    And in a moment, she took the step for her country. Her people. 

    Not him. 

    It was the sign of a true queen. A kind-hearted, understanding person. In that moment, however, Christopher had felt such a deeply searing betrayal that he found looking at her very face to be painful now. He walked the hallways avoiding her, instead of seeking her out as he'd once done. It was too hard now. Too crushing a punishment. 

    He thought maybe that was why it was the sixth night with Jalil. 

    Because they were all sacrificing things for others, all the time in this world-- they gave and gave, and then gave more, until they were dry. Even Jalil. But while David wanted to play hero and give the world all they desired, and April was too kind to let others down, that was _their_ lot in life. But, Jalil? Christopher? 

    He'd always been selfish. There was something satisfying and reassuring about Jalil's own self-serving style. The young scientist made it no secret that he did things only for himself and what _he_ believed in; he wasn't about to bow to any force besides his own. So when Etain left and had forsaken him, that was breaking. Shattering. 

    But Jalil… he was selfish, too. 

    So when he let Christopher touch him; he let Christopher grab him and shove him against walls, searing his mouth deep onto his own; when he allowed the blonde to mix their breaths together into a bled of harsh, pleading gasps; and when he permitted Christopher to hold his wrists down as the blonde feathered light whispering kisses down his collarbone… that was because he wanted it. 

    He didn't care that Christopher left bruises on his hips sometimes, or that the blonde was sometimes careful, but sometimes not. He didn't mind if the room next to them (occupied by a strange lumpish dwarf) could hear their cries and groans. Because nothing was going to get in the way of what Jalil deemed his right-- to let Christopher do whatever the fuck he wanted to him. His pride was maintained because it was his own will and nobody else's. 

    It was true that he was selfish; whatever reason Jalil let their arguments turn into… that… it all boiled down to the fact that he wanted it. He didn't have Etain's graceful sacrificial moods. When he got sick of Christopher and came to terms with what they were doing, that would be it. Zip, zero, nada-- but on his own account. 

    Jalil wasn't the type to walk away in the morning because he had another room to be in, another bed to be sleeping in. 

    "I must take my leave, love… forgive me," she would whisper in the night, twisting from his embrace as though it were a cursed thing to endure. 

    Now, as dawn approached and weaved gentle golden caresses through Christopher's hair, he found his arm around another warm body. Deep breaths rising and falling on top of him, where Jalil had curled up a few hours before. Eyelashes on his darkened cheeks, lips slightly open and sighing, his long legs entwined with Christopher's pale ones. The oversized shirt looked like Christopher's; it was probably something he'd snatched off the floor and tugged on before falling asleep in some sad attempt to gain some modesty. 

    The blonde woke up to the sight of someone selfish enough to not care about right and wrong-- and that made him smile. 

    Of course, when he thought about Jalil wanting it, it became harder to imagine it was a "heat of the moment" thing. 

    That was when Christopher felt like getting drunk. 

    _He drowns himself, over and over in the crimson streams of guilt and disgust, but loathes to loose the memories in wine. They are becoming… important to him._

    He didn't know what to think anymore, really. 

    It was so easy. Seventh night? Eighth? What did it matter, it was a perfect routine that he should know by heart by now, but always told himself it would never happen again. Except it did. And he didn't really care. 

    It took Christopher until the ninth day to realize he knew perfectly well what he was doing. 

    Get drunk. Wallow in misery. Find Jalil. Argue with Jalil. 

    And then swallow that heavy, sweet breath into his own. 

    Who was he trying to kid? He didn't even know what to call what they were doing. There were no words for it, if only because he tried not to think of the actual terminology of it all. He thought about it all the time, but that was with feelings and waves of emotion. They were pictures, but he didn't know what they meant. In fact, Christopher refused to understand what they meant. 

    Was it fucking? Screwing? Fooling around, manly bonds in war and all that? Making love? 

    No, not making love. That seemed like something he would do with Etain, slower and sweeter and surer than this random coupling. But he couldn't bring himself to call it fucking when he thought about the way Jalil cried his name, or fell asleep with his head tucked safely under the blonde's chin. He couldn't call it screwing when he remembered the one time there had been a tiny whimper, and when Jalil dug his fingers so deeply into his back that it left marks well into the next day. How he had turned bright red when he saw them, but clucked his tongue sympathetically all the same. 

    There were no words for it-- it was a "heat of the moment" kind of thing. 

    Honestly. 

    That's all it had to be. There were no words for how easy it was to loose himself in that body, in the quietly spoken admissions given afterwards. Jalil liked to murmur afterwards; it used to drive him mad. But by the third night he had welcomed it-- had enjoyed this strange dark-skinned creature laying with him, absently tracing circles on his arm and softly speaking about Socrates and the dimensions of an ant, or how the technically the sun wasn't the middle of the universe. 

    It couldn't be making love. Love was everything to do with Etain. Christopher never got the butterflies flying through his stomach when he was with Jalil, or the feeling of light-heated giddiness. When he was with Jalil, there was always irritation and irrationality, burning and searing its way through the delicate tissues of his body. And sometimes, when he woke up next to him, or saw how distant Jalil's eyes were when he was slowly combing slender fingers through Christopher's hair, or understood that no one else saw these intimate, tiny pieces of Jalil Sherman's self… 

    That was when he felt as though he were glowing with the same warmth Jalil held. A ball of golden light drifting idly throughout his body. 

    And to be honest, maybe that feeling was even more addicting than the sex. 

    _He thinks that he will never admit his longings and yearnings. Years of practice doing it has turned out in doubt, because he cannot utter the words he contains._

    Jalil always comes, he knew. That was all he had to think about, as long as there were excuses to uphold and the knowledge that it wasn't meaning anything. Yet he knew Jalil would still be there to argue with him. 

    And come the eleventh night, it was still true. But now he couldn't blame it on the "heat of the moment" anymore. 

    The thirteenth night, he couldn't blame it on Etain any longer. 

    _The excuses all away. He tries so hard to forget reason and logic. They don't belong here._

    The sixteenth night, Jalil laid quietly in the aftermath of their world, and traced circles on Christopher's chest. He murmured of things like existentialism and the components of sonnets, and why they are rubbish. 

    The seventeenth night, Christopher agreed with him. 

    _He becomes alarmed sometimes that they speak on the same wavelength now, and can tell anyone a million tiny details that no one else knows about Jalil Sherman._

    On the twentieth night, Jalil rolled over and smiled at him. 

    On the twenty-third, he kissed him very, very lightly before he slept. 

    _He spends his days ignoring but obsessing, while his nights are progressively more dream-like. They are a reality he chooses to accept, but can't face._

    On the twenty-seventh morning, Christopher found himself sleepily reaching over during breakfast to drift a finger down Jalil's cheek. The scientist blinked at him, as though startled, and they refused to look at each other all day. 

    On the twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth night, they stayed away from each other. 

    _In the end, however, it doesn't matter. He looks at him and sees something entirely different looking back. He realizes that while he's been ignoring it, he's been falling for the last imaginable person. And that it's not that bad at all._

    On the thirtieth night, Christopher realized it had been a month, and that's all it took to change his life. 

    To change everything. 

    _He goes to Jalil Sherman's room this time, and they don't need a "heat of the moment" at all. Just a glance and a shy smile._

    It was probably all wrong. 

    That didn't matter, though. They'd always been about action and not thought. When Christopher wanted something, he didn't pretend not to, and this turned out no different. It was a natural thing, now, to roll over in the morning and expect Jalil to be dozing there. It was common to bump into him in the hallways and tease him mercilessly about how stupid he looked in those dwarf garments. It was expected to banter and then loop his arm around his waist, dipping his head down to lightly nip at the burnt caramel skin on Jalil's shoulder. (And then smirk when the scientist smacked him, snapping, "Not here, dumb ass.") 

    It was easier to forget Etain. Easier to sleep at night and face himself in the morning, now that there was nothing to prove. Easier to abandon the wine and excuses and all the things that made him miserable, even though Jalil drove him insane so many times. 

    Christopher thought that was okay, because he knew he drove _him_ insane plenty of times, too. 

    The forty-second night, they caught each other over in the library (on accident, assuredly, honestly, truthfully) and stole a breath-taking kiss. It was stupid, and Christopher wondered why he bothered to sneak down there when all there was around the library was stuffy work and books. And Jalil. 

    The forty… the forty-seventh night, Christopher smiled at Etain in the halls. He placed a hand subtly over Jalil's left shoulder, and she acknowledged it with a sad, understanding nod. He felt better than he had in ages. The dark-eyed teenager raised an eyebrow at him. 

    He couldn't wait until the night fell completely, and they didn't show up for dinner. 

    The… fifty-eighth… fifty… fif… 

    _It was getting harder to count how many nights he'd been in love._

~~~ 

Well, that's a rap. Utterly pointless and silly. And lots of sex talk. I am such a pervert. But it's not MY fault everyone wants to snog Jalil silly. *pouts* Now is it? 

As for "Caution: Falling," the new chapter's almost ready. I'm stuck on one part of it, which is what's taking soooo looong... x_x Good grief, I've already written the chapter ahead of it, I just have to smash this evil writer's block for Chapter Six... 

As always, thanks for reading! *glomps everyone* 


End file.
